


Letters From the Living

by witch_lit



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Infection, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witch_lit/pseuds/witch_lit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the end of their world, so they decided that there was nothing left but to love each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters From the Living

 Entry 1

 

I sigh, looking around my barren apartment. There’s no love here, no life, only the empty shell of a person and tasteless furniture. There’s nothing I can call my own, nothing you could call yours. Everything in this place, a hell I would never think about calling ‘home,’ is uninteresting, unenergetic, simply there because it has to be. Because it makes it seem almost normal, though the chill in the air and the decaying, off-white and speckled with mud and dried blood walls tell an entirely different story. This place is nothing close to normal, nothing even remotely resembling a reality that you used to so desperately cling to. I’ve long since given up on those ideologies, which hope for safety, that hope to be free. You’re free now, in a way, but you’re still confined by the bounds of death. Is it enough to say I miss you?

 

It’ll never be enough, I suppose.  I lied to you. I told you we’d be safe, that these walls would hold our secrets. I told you that there’s hope, I spun you tales and I gave you fairies to hold onto as your eyes scanned awkward shadows when we listened to the scraping of nails against the walls in the dead of night. When, an eternity ago, there were little rays of cancerous hope clinging to the insides of this box of ours.  I want those times back, those times of lying and pretending everything I said was true. Pretending that your words were laws that I could live by, that we would live. Neither of us really believed it, but it was just a pipe dream.  A truth we wanted so badly…

 

We weren’t even friends when we came here; we were survivors. We were the people who hadn’t died, that the illness couldn’t kill. We were immune, like a few in the population, and we’d been killing to stay alive when they found us and promised protection. Look how that turned out. But we came, and were shoved in this room together with Jem, provisions that would last the years we needed, and candles. We had books, paper, we had space. We didn’t have the Internet, but it was dying anyway, with no one to power it. It hardly mattered; it was just the three of us and all of the dreams of humanity crammed into one space. There were other boxes, other bubbles for non-infected to live in, not that we knew where any of them were or could even get to them if we wanted.  Our box would burst and we’d be free to recreate the world in ten years, when the lock would click open. That timer had always haunted us; red numbers ticking down to a number that seemed like it would never come.

 

I'm still not entirely sure how they thought we were going to repopulate the earth. The three of us were men; none of us could have children. But they were frantic and dying, I suppose. I didn't think about it much at the time. It was just... there, at the back of my mind. I was too upset by everything else, we all were. My brother and sister were dead. I watched them die, I watched an infected scratch at them, sink its teeth into their screaming flesh as they begged for it to stop, but it didn't. It didn't stop until they were motionless, shells of an infant and a girl, and I watched as jerky movements reanimated them. I waited for them to come, to turn me, and I was so terrified. I knew what was going to happen, and I'd just lost my entire life to it. My sister bit at me first, then my brother, and I can recall that it hurt, even with his toddler bite.

 

I think the worst part was when they cringed away from me, their nearly slack tongues ripping away from my blood. They left me then, because I was useless to them. I was immune, and I didn't taste good. To them, I was rotten. To me, they were rotten. I don't remember getting the strength, motivation, or idea to do it, but I ran. I ran and I ran and I ran, I didn't want to stop. I met a girl who ran with me, for a while, and eventually we heard of a place to go where we could be safe. She died just before we got there, not even a mile away. I was covered in bite marks and infections while her skin was clear but she was the one bitten this time, just outside the encampment gates. A refugee tossed me a gun and I shot her and the undead thing inside her through the forehead. I watched the top of her head pop off like it was supposed to do that. Like it was natural.

 

They thought I was infected for a while. I pleaded, told them I wasn't and they locked me up for a day before they could be sure. Then they were shipping me off in a jeep with you and Jem, sickly Jem who promised that he was only so weak because of an illness he'd had all of his life. Not because the infection was running through his veins at an agonizingly slow pace like they expected, like they rightfully should have expected. If there had been any further testing... But we were loading ourselves into a strange place, built next to a jagged mountain point and digging into the base of the mountain, and another refugee was explaining about how we'd be down there for ten years and we'd have everything we'd ever need and then there were infected surrounding us and he pushed us all into the unknown place he'd brought us to, locking it and we listened to him scream and retch as he was lost to the truly living world. We were now stuck inside this place for ten years, no sooner and no later would we be free, and you kept wondering aloud why the hell you had ever agreed to this. All I knew was that I'd seen enough death recently to not care about anything, to kind of inflate and just sort of half-live in a way that might've been considered a mirror to the zombies outside our safe walls. But our walls weren't as safe as we thought, were they?

 

Two days in and Jem was dead, his body still stalking us as we hid from him. We had no way to kill him. We ended up locking him in the back of the building, just before the food. We still had access to that, thankfully, but he was in a room with blankets and the first aid kits. If either of us got hurt, or sick, I'd have to go in and hopefully find supplies that wouldn't get you infected. I could use anything, of course, infection on it or not. Immunity, a thing so rare that my siblings didn't even share it. I often wish that I’d been killed along with my siblings, along with you, that maybe I could just be nothing. That I wouldn’t have to live.

 

But you told me that, just before you were turned. You were terrified for yourself, but for me you wanted a life outside of this box. A life I didn’t and don’t want. I have an hour left in here, then the door will unlock and I’ll have to face the world. I expect it’ll be bright; I ran out of light bulbs a week ago. I smashed a couple, with the intent of killing myself with the glass, and I’d see your door and I just couldn’t. I had to be strong, for you, even though you had been dead for far too long. Seven years I made it alone, taking it day by day. I think I was… sick, for a while. I kept seeing you and Isabelle and Max. My siblings and the boy I loved, all infected and, if the survivors were lucky, dead. I didn’t feel very lucky.

 

I miss you. I miss my sister, since the day she began existing without being anywhere near alive. I miss having a baby brother. I might miss having a mother and a father, but all I remember about them is that I didn’t see them die. After so long of just not thinking about them too much, of not replaying their faces in my head every day, I just don’t know who they are anymore. I remember there used to be songs before I went to sleep, and I remember a faint bitterness but the rest is blurred beyond any recognition. I wish I had pictures. I wish I wasn’t alone for so long. I wish that I can just sort of… stay here, forever. With your body and memory. Maybe I shouldn’t go out. I could bring the virus, disease, whatever it is, with me. I have enough food for fifteen more years in here, at least. Yours and Jem’s. But I want to see light again, and not just the glow of the red timer. I want to be able to read new books, if there are any. I want to talk to someone, see people interact with each other. Or I want to kill myself away from your memory. Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this. But I’ve only got a half-hour now…Time is ticking so slowly, yet so quickly simultaneously and my nerves are lighting me on fire just to watch the show.

 

Jace… I love you. Before I leave, I just want you to know. I loved you with all of my heart. I’ve been shattered since you died. Since I killed you, sneaking into the room with the first aid kits and bringing out a clean box. I didn’t wash my hands, and you died. I’m sure you knew I loved you, but… I need to say it again before I leave. I loved it when we were together, terrified when we could hear scratching, but so happy to at least have each other. You made me a necropheliac, wanting to go out while having sex. I was crying and you were just trying not to pay attention and it was the worst sex we had ever had, not how I’d want to remember us, but we were just fifteen year old kids. You were dying, and it was what you wanted.

 

I have five minutes left with you, Jace. With your body. It hasn’t moved in three or so years, just like Jem’s. You could only starve for so long before your undead body died. It’s been a long time since I heard scratching on your door, and I almost miss it. It became something that reminded me of you, and when I first noticed it was gone for longer than a day or two I just… I don’t know. I can’t really remember all that well. It was another goodbye to you. And now, I’ve got to say what will be the final one. I’m not coming back, even if this has become a sort of distorted home. I won’t be back. I’ll try to move on. I’ll try to live, just like I promised you.

 

I love you, again.

 

Alec

**Author's Note:**

> This might be continued as a Malec, in a new world, but I'm not sure yet. If you'd be interested, please say so!


End file.
